


Just Another Bow

by megster



Series: In These Small Hours [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megster/pseuds/megster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is proficient with more than one kind of bow. Natasha is suitably impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Bow

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a one-shot that has absolutely no plot whatsoever. It's completely pointless, so if you are looking for a storyline with an actual plot, you are looking in the wrong place. I just wanted some Clint and Natasha friendship action... And this got written.
> 
> This is the piece that Clint plays for Natasha first:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDJxZW23_rQ
> 
> Sorry for being pointless... Hopefully you enjoy it anyway.

Clint doesn’t tell the others.

It’s not that he wants to hide it, exactly. It’s just that old habits die hard, and there are some things that are nearly sacred to him.

Now that he lives in the tower with everyone, though, he should have known this little secret of his wouldn’t last long.

It’s Natasha, of course, who finds out first.

He’s sitting in his bedroom, and she comes in without warning (she and Phil are the only ones who are keyed in to be able to enter his room without permission) and Clint is caught just a little off guard. He’s perched on the edge of his bed, tuning the violin with deft fingers, tweaking the pegs, gently plucking at the strings, when he notices her standing in the doorway, an odd look on her face.

“Tasha,” he says by way of greeting.

He wonders whether he should be upset that she’s walked in on him during one of his private times, but realizes he really doesn’t mind.

“I could go,” she says, because she has _always_ been able to read the fleeting thoughts behind his eyes.

“No,” he says. “Stay.”

She comes all the way into the room and closes the door behind her silently. She seats herself with her back against the door and simply waits.

Clint doesn’t speed up because he has an audience. He has a ritual, and he’s damn well going to follow it. He continues tuning it, finishing with the E string. He picks up his bow, tightens it, then runs rosin up and down the length of it several times.

Natasha watches him calmly, steadily. Not rushing him. It’s one of her finer qualities, her ability to wait him out.

He finally lifts the violin to his shoulder and sets the bow to the string. He runs through a few scales and arpeggios before he’s ready to start playing.

“Any requests?” he asks.

She shakes her head and gives him a small smile.

He plunges immediately into one of his favorite pieces, a gorgeous work intended for the piano but somehow well-suited to strings. It’s not terribly long, less than five minutes long, but it stretches across the room, floats from him to Natasha, notes dancing through the air. When he finishes, Natasha smiles at him in pure delight, and that happens rarely enough that he wants to give her a hug.

He doesn’t, of course. He just begins another song, and then another, and then another.

He keeps playing until he’s run out of pieces he’s memorized and sets the violin down. “I’m out,” he says a little apologetically. “I haven’t had much time to teach myself pieces in a while.”

He starts the process of putting the violin away. It’s not a terribly good violin, but it’s not a bad one either, and it’s the only one he’s got. He runs a cloth over the strings to make sure the rosin build-up isn’t too bad. He loosens his bow and carefully places it back into the case, then gently fits the violin into it as well.

He sticks the case back under the bed and goes to sit by Natasha.

They sit in companionable silence on the floor for several long minutes. He leans his head against the wall and waits for her to speak. It’s her turn to say something, because he’s given her what he has to offer. 

Finally she says, “Thank you. For that.” And gives him a smile.

“Anytime, Tasha,” he says. 

“I won’t tell anyone until you want to show them,” she says. “But you should play for Phil.”

Clint looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. “I could,” he agrees. “I will, at some point.”

“Okay,” she says, because that’s another thing she’s good at, not pushing him into doing things until he’s ready to.

They are quiet again until Natasha says, “Do you play any other instruments?”

Clint cocks his head at her. “A little piano,” he says. “I’m good at the cello. Never tried a viola but it can’t be too different from a violin.”

She nods. 

“I’ll play for you again sometime,” he offers. “If I can get my hands on a cello I have some songs you’ll probably like.”

“That would be nice,” Natasha says. “Thank you.”

She brushes her hand across his, very deliberately, because every movement Natasha makes is deliberate. She stands gracefully. Before slipping out the door, she says, “If you don’t want the others to know, better check with J.A.R.V.I.S.” And then she is gone.

Clint’s eyes widen. “Shit,” he mutters to himself. Not that it _matters_ , really, because the others would probably like it and honestly would probably be relieved that their resident marksman had a hobby besides shooting people. But the music, it’s sort of his thing, a reminder that he isn’t all arrows and bullets and cold eyes and steady hands, and he still isn’t sure he’s ready to share it with others. Natasha is one thing, because she’s his _partner_ and she understands the importance of knowing that a killer isn’t all he is (he’s well aware of her ballet dancing; he’s known about it for years). The others, though. He trusts them in the field and he’s coming to _like_ them even (especially Tony, and who would’ve guessed that?), but this, for now, is going to remain his secret.

If J.A.R.V.I.S. agrees.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” He says out loud, a little sheepish. He’s still not quite used talking to the AI.

“Agent Barton,” says J.A.R.V.I.S.

“Can you maybe not tell Tony? Or the others? It’s not that I don’t want them to know, exactly, but-” He fumbles, trying to explain himself.

“My programming at this time allows me to keep certain things from Mr. Stark, Agent Barton. I would not be opposed to keeping this private,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replies immediately, and Clint thinks that he detects a hint of understanding underneath the prim tone of voice.

“Thank you,” Clint breathes, relieved.

“If I may, Agent Barton?” J.A.R.V.I.S. seems a little hesitant.

“Go for it,” Clint says.

“I believe, that when you are ready, the rest team will embrace this talent of yours as readily as they embrace your skill with a bow and arrow.”

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind,” Clint says, because he’s not sure what else to say, because he’s talking to and receiving advice from a sentient robot about his musical abilities and his life has gotten a little weird lately.

He’s only a little surprised when, the next week, he opens his bedroom door to go out for his early morning jog and finds a rather large package outside of his room.

He’s not at all surprised when he opens it to reveal a gorgeous cello with a dark red finish and a note that reads, _Barton, something from J.A.R.V.I.S. and me. Call it an early birthday present._ Tasha’s handwriting, of course.

Later at breakfast, he bumps Natasha’s hip with his own as they are getting coffee and says, “My birthday isn’t for another two months.”

She answers him with a smile.


End file.
